celebrating the good things in life and the imperfect ones made great by God's grace

Divine

05/21/2015

We’ve passed that same spot every Tuesday night for nearing a year. But something about this evening compelled me to stop and take out my “big camera,” as friends have always dubbed it.

I had no idea at the time how much I needed that, but I did.

For the last – well a while, now – words have failed me.

My trusty hobby/habit/escape of writing has seemed impossible and not enough, all at the same time.

I’ve been wrestling with the ideas I’ve held dearest for all of my life, and that battle has left me exhausted, scarred and silent.

It’s not the first time this has happened to me, but it is definitely the longest drought I’ve had as a writer.

And it’s been hard on my soul, if I’m telling the truth (at the risk of sounding melodramatic, which I probably am).

Among the many thoughts weighing on me, is the pestering question, “How do I step forward in faith, when the mustard seed that grounded me as a child, has become the very thing holding me hostage as an adult."

I’m truly anchored by hope, but at a time when my heart’s desire is to set out to sea.

And so it’s hard to know how to grow, how to take the next steps,how to become the person I believe I was designed to be,when it goes against so much of who I was taught to be.

When I broke out the camera, I did so to capture the storm clouds rolling in. I’m so sick of the rain. Even the lakes are sick of the rain.

But for some mysterious reason, seeing the almost-rain, felt magical somehow.

The eerie shadow they cast on a field of grain…

The clouds created a haunting scene of wildflowers growing, and muddy trenches, and so many signs warning people to keep out.

I wanted to wade into the middle of it all, but decided not to get my shoes dirty.

I wanted to disobey those signs.

But instead I stayed safe, at the edge.

And I think that’s been my biggest problem all along.

I want to be safe, comfortable, and the “good girl” I was raised to be.

I don’t want to rebel. I don’t want to shirk tradition.

I want to fit in, and be liked.

I want to go with the flow. I don't want to ruffle feathers.

I certainly don't want to disappoint anyone, or feel rejected by the family of faith that was so essential to my childhood.

But the problem is, what was once safe and comfortable, has become soul-crushing, for me.

Because trying to stay in one place for so long, trying to grow - but only so much as seems acceptable to others - has stamped out the creativity and desires I have.

Instead of trusting myself, I’ve put my trust in others under the guise of believing I was putting my faith in God.

And that has created a horrible mess that I’ve been trying for years to unravel.

Which, I think, explains the frustration and the silence, but hardly makes clear where I must go from here.

So many clichés are running through my mind right now, which is probably a side effect of watching too much TV (and yes, spending way too much time on Pinterest).

“Bloom where you are planted.”

“A flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it. It just blooms.”

And my favorite, as of late, and the only one unrelated to flowers…

“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

That one resonates with everything in my head.

Those stupid rattling thoughts I can’t seem to let go of or sort out.

It’s not like I think I’m some special flower that needs an acre to bloom, or some crazy nonsense like that.

It’s not that I think faith, in and of itself, is stupid or foolish or naïve.

And it’s not even that I want to walk away from everything I’ve ever known and believed, and trusted, much less to run in the opposite direction.

It’s just that it makes me angry – and feel a little stupid - to realize how long I was worshiping not a mysterious, almighty Creator, but a boxed-in idol.

An idol that claimed to love me, while telling me everything about the way I was created was sinful and wrong.

An idol created by men who refused to do the frustrating work of true faith, which is dependent on leaving space for the mystery.

Real faith requires stepping out of comfort zones.

It means risking and failing.

And most of all, it means living. Really living.

Not hiding from the world, trying to stay safe.

I don't know much, but that can't be what we were made for, much less saved for... to simply survive.

Surely abundant life is bigger and better than that.

Surely true freedom is more radical than that.

So… why pictures? Why break out the “big camera?”

Wasn't that we were talking about?

In many ways, lately, photographs are speaking the thousand words I can’t seem to find.

They’re capturing the irony that is merely existing in a world with warning signs posted in fields of wildflowers.

I don’t know if anyone will relate to these rambling thoughts, or even these photos.

But if you do find yourself wanting to step out of your comfort zone, afraid to muddy your shoes…

Afraid you won’t find a path to walk if you take one too many steps off the road most travelled…

Just know that you’re not alone.

There are more of us than we think, standing at the edge weighing our options.

Wanting desperately to wade into the unknown, but afraid what it means for our futures.

And I think it's okay to be afraid. Princess Diaries taught me it wouldn't be courage without the fear.

But I can't let the fear control me.

Honestly, I don’t know what comes next or where exactly I’m supposed to go from here, only that I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering. Waiting. Stuck.

I’ve been on the sidelines long enough.

I have to step out, step forward.

I’ve been a good littlegirl long enough.

It’s time to grow with abandon.

Maybe what we some of us need most to hear, isn't to bloom wherever we were planted.

11/12/2013

We’ll make it into nothing, by trying to say it could be something other than what we’ve been taught, what we’ve held so dear.

We cling tighter and tighter with each passing year, each war, each mindless shooting, each orphaned child…

Nothing else makes sense, so we hold tighter to what we do know.

Now we can’t remember if it was truth keeping us safe, or if we were charged with saving it.

We set out to protect it, at all costs. Just to be safe.

If we open our fists to look at it, much less share it, we might lose it altogether.

So we tighten our grasp, cracking whatever mutated form remains in our grip.

Better a small, broken truth, than no truth at all.

And that’s what we tell ourselves, and assure those in our closed circle, each with hands cupping his own invisible commodity.

We are indivisible. We are one.

Set apart from those outside, those missing the truth that saved us.

This is what I see.

And this is what I’ve known.

Certainty. Confidence.

At a cost.

Surely Truth was never meant to be held like this; like a vice. Like a right.

Like something to lord over others.

Something to beat them down with, and keep them in line with.

Nevermind that we claim to be the only ones who can see, or set, those floating lines.

Truth, to me, always sounded like Light.

Light like Love.

And Love like Freedom.

And Freedom like Grace.

Grace that can’t be clenched. Or controlled.

Earned. Or saved.

Grace that abounds in being spent up, given out, passed along, loosely held.

Grace that cannot be quantified, or calculated.

Grace that just is, with or without us.

Grace that doesn’t belong to any one person, or people group, or country, or religious sect.

Grace that is transformative, and transcendent.

Grace that covers the whole earth.

Grace best exhibited not by tight-knit circles, but by open hands.

The older I get, the more hurt I see.

Hurt too often inflicted by those fighting in the name of truth.

And I’ve felt like a traitor, for questioning what it is I’m doing here.

Straining under the pressure of trying to cling to something that slipped out of my hands long ago.

I worried what would happen if I admitted I’d lost it.

The certainty. The confidence. My shiny security.

Would I be accused of trying to outrun or outwit the truth?

An enemy of all I once loved?

Or, in accepting that my hands are empty, and giving up the fight, might I experience a Freedom I hadn't known before?

Might I find that Truth isn't made for keeping, but about being set free?

* I took a prolonged "vacation" from blogging there for a bit, and writing in general. (Sorta scary for someone like me, that processes best through internal dialogue followed by written, scribbled words.)

But the hiatus makes me all the more grateful that one little prompt could draw so much out of me. Stuff I've been struggling with for months now, unable to articulate.

These thoughts may still be a mess of rawness, scattered thoughts, but I, for one, am glad to get them out of my head. Thanks for "listening."

10/09/2013

If ever you’ve wanted to read a book that will completely
destroy your worldview, then build it back up slowly, page by page, a little
dingier but also much stronger than before, then East of Eden is the book
for you.

I have never read a book that’s had a more profound impact
on me, nor can I imagine one coming along anytime soon that will have similar
effect.

That’s because everything about East of Eden is timeless, transcendent. It pulls you up into this
grand, unfolding story, and even when it takes you to places you never dreamed
you’d go, maybe never wanted to go, you can’t get away from it.

What’s more, you won’t want to get away.

You’ll want to keep pushing forward, because you’ll want to
keep experiencing life with them, these characters come to life by John
Steinbeck’s beautifully tragic words.

And the beauty of this story, the beauty of his words, is that
they don’t invite you to stand along the sidelines and pass judgment on the
characters. (God knows there’s plenty of that in real life.)

No. His words plead with you to crawl into the character’s
shoes, even into their souls, to experience the feelings they do, and every painful step in their journey.

He wants you to do more than see the lives they lead; he
wants you to live them.

As the characters fall in and out of love your heart will do
the same.

And as the characters stumble in and out of sin, you’ll
live vicariously, getting your hands dirty then trying desperately to scrub
them clean.

Triumph and failure.

Heartache and joy.

You are there. You are in it, the throws of a life not lived
well, necessarily, but well lived for sure.

And the very subtle difference between the two is precisely
where Steinbeck shines.

He excels in the ambiguous, the gray matters I, for one, am
so prone to overlook.

He highlights, instead of shies away from, the parts of life
that don’t fit neatly into our preconceptions.

And for that I’m thankful.

For that I'm a (marginally) better person I believe.

I don’t want to ruin a thing about the story, by getting
into who lives where, and who loves whom.

I will, however, share with you the
powerful thread that ties all those who’s together.

It’s the same thing that ties us all together, good and bad,
young and old, kind and cruel, brilliant and fool.

It’s our capacity to make choices.

Our ability to choose which direction we take, and then to
rethink that decision as we go.

We choose who we want to be, how we want to treat people,
and what matters most to us.

And we do so by making a thousand tiny choices everyday, choices
that make up a life merely survived, or a life well-lived.

For a long time (most of my life) I viewed reading as an academic event. I saw it as an attempt, a ploy even, to gain more knowledge.

Lately I haven't much wanted to learn though, so the textbook like non-fiction I've anxiously purchased (though great) has started collecting dust on my shelves.

I've been looking for an escape instead, a break from the monotony of my daily existence, not an explanation for it or a How-To Cure.

East of Eden has offered just that. An esacpe. An outlet.

From the start it had me hopelessly, utterly caught up in its candor.

And because it captivated my attention - and my heart - I ended up learning so much more than I could have expected.

The book made me feel less alone in my wondering, in my dilemma over which
choices to make, and if I know my way at all.

And escaping into it actually helped me feel more connected to humanity. Because it made me feel understood, accepted, in a way that has compelled me to seek
to understand others more.

What a crazy, incredible gift that is, to set down a book invigorated to live.

And to share that life with others.

No wonder it's stood the test of time.

No wonder I couldn't put it down.

No wonder I was a little sad to read the last page, but indescribably grateful too, for having experienced it firsthand.

Life as an adult can seem pretty grim sometimes.

So many responsibilities. So little time (and money) for fun, whimsy.

East of Eden doesn't shy away from the hardness of life. If anything it reminds us that some have it much harder than others.

But, and this is such a big but (pun not intended), it also points to a beauty often lost in our toil and strife. Beauty not always noticed this side of Eden, but beauty that exists, waiting for us to find it.

Beauty is what beckons us to aim for greatness, but also to gracefully accept whatever comes.

09/09/2013

I don’t know what it is about music that is so transcendent,
but nothing is better at drawing me out of my own head than words set to song.

When I’m crazy, on-the-verge-of-losing-it, I like to drive
in the car with the audio at full blast. Somehow when the music is obnoxiously,
almost painfully loud, it helps soothe me. (It’s less soothing when I have passengers
with me, but thankfully, that’s been rare.)

I think the music makes me feel smaller, in a good way. The
way I feel when I’m watching waves crash onto the shore, or stars alone
lighting an otherwise black sky.

When I remember I’m a small part in a very grand universe,
it becomes a lot easier to let go of the weight of the world. And I’m thankful
for that.

Last week was hard, in a lot of different ways, like turn
the volume all the way up and yell at the radio, instead of singing along,
hard.

I felt isolated with my worries, and powerless to change
anything, much less fix anything.

But it was punctuated by something really amazing, something
I needed much more than I realized as we loaded up the car.

My sister and I drove (she drove, graciously!) 4 hours last
weekend to see a music festival in the tiny town of Guthrie, Oklahoma.

There
were tons of bands there, only a handful of which we actually got to see, after
parking nightmares and eating our weight in barbecue.

But even as a backdrop on our weekend, listening to Pandora
in the car, and to local bands perform as we explored antique stores downtown, I
was reminded how much a part of my life music is.

More importantly, I was made aware how much of a bigger part I wished it played.

Day to day it’s much easier to listen to other noises
instead. The kind that come along, uninvited. The dishwasher running, and cars honking…
my work phone ringing, or me hearing its phantom ring taunt me in a moment of
silence.

It’s all NOISE.

And it’s all I hear most days.

But sometimes, when I remember to withdraw for a moment of
quiet, of solitude, I hear the music creating a subtle soundtrack to my life.

The conversation hits a lull, and I notice a song playing in
the restaurant. I’ve never heard it before, and may never hear it again, but it
seems familiar somehow. It makes me feel at home.

It invites me up into the bigger story that’s happening, the
one beyond hasty dollar store runs and hospital visits.

Yes. Letting the music bathe over me reminds me that so much
of the bigger picture I can’t always see is beautiful. And what a shame it
would be to let the tough or dark points overshadow all that good.

Did I mention that concert we drove to was Mumford and Sons?

Most people love or hate them, it seems. I don’t know many
bands so polarizing. And I get that not everyone is into alt-folk music; it’s
not everyone’s cup of organic tea so to speak.

But man are they good musicians, like world-class,
incredibly talented musicians.

That’s not what drew me to drive (ride) four hours to see them
though. It might have gotten me to buy their CD, but it wasn’t reason enough to
stand in a crowded field on a humid Saturday night, covered in red dirt and
sweat.

What drew me to see them was this.

Seeing moms and their teenage sons both delighting in a
single song …witnessing bonafide hippies and hipsters, all sitting on blankets
in the middle of a field… watching people raise their hands, and clap along,
and laugh, and cheer, and I’m sure cry… that is why I wanted to be there.

That is why I needed
to be there.

I needed to be surrounded by people that had driven in from all different states, each leaving behind troubles of their own, that wanted to
escape from the noisy world for a while.

People longing to be ushered into something beautiful.
Something bigger than car maintenance, and time cards, and Intensive Care.

For an hour or so we got to be part of a unified community.

We got to close our eyes, and be swept up into a bigger story,
one musicians tell us about with words and melodies.

It's the kind of story artists paint about. And novelists write
about.

And occasionally, good preachers preach about.

And the weary, worn-out dream about.

No one musician, or artist, holds the rights to it, because no one will ever fully describe it.

But all the good ones point to it.

And the really good ones invite us to be a part of it.

And I love them for that. I am sooo grateful for that.

'Cause I need it, so much more than I realize most days.

I need to be one, of thousands, lost in a moment.

Lost in a melody.

When I’m happy nothing’s better than humming a cheerful song
all day.

And when I’m sad nothing helps like a songwriter totally
commiserating, and articulating, my emotional experience.

Loud and upbeat, or soft and slow… music always makes me feel less alone.

But now she lies there, paralyzed not by circumstance but by
fear of the pain.

With flushed cheeks, and strained movements, and a fear in her
eyes I’ve never seen before.

Red.

Why God? She loves you.

Never has a woman loved you more.

She talks about you, with the nurses, with her guests.

She talks about you, and your will being done, and how you
have the power to heal, but that she’ll accept whatever lot in life you give
her.

Right now her lot is a mechanized bed, one filled with
scratchy sheets, and so many tubes, and she doesn’t have to say it.

I can see in her face she’s angry.

Still, she praises you.

That
one little fall could land her here…

I'm frustrated for her.

She says she went short on her quiet time the morning it
happened.

She blames herself.

But I blame you.

Why God?

Are you as angry as you seem?

So spiteful you would pick on someone already small, and
frail?

I don’t want to believe it.

I don’t want to feel it.

But I look out the window at a sea of cityscape and back in,
to nurses scuttling, and people struggling, and my heart aches.

The world is not as it should be.

Why, why God, don’t you intervene?

Please tell me you’re not a vengeful God, that strikes old women
down because they prayed for 30 minutes instead of an hour.

Tell me you’re not a tyrant, doing as you will, with
no regards for all the lives you’ve created, seeming pawns in a cruel cosmic game.

Tell me you see her, and hear her faint prayers as she
drifts into a medicated sleep.

Tell me you hear me, and the words unspoken, behind my own
tears and worries.

I am pleading for justice. And mercy.

But most of all for grace.

And I’m begging you to tell me you’re not at all the God the
televangelists have painted you to be.

Nor the meek shepherd hanging on so many wood-planked church
walls.

Tell me you’re more than the light we’ve seen you in before.

Tell me you’re greater, and gentler, than the Old Testament
stories used to bash gays and push political ideologies.

Tell me anything, God.

Say anything, God.

That I might not walk away from another hospital room, so
angry with you.

- 30 -

I haven't been able to write much lately. And what I have scratched out I've lacked the confidence to post.

I've had a hard time articulating to friends and family how I feel too, so these weekly free-writing exercises have been something of a life-saver, forcing me to examine my thoughts, instead of running from them.

This, apparently, is a raw season for me. A season of painfully slow growing and struggling to move forward, out of the stagnant waters I've been wading in.

For my praying friends, I hope you'll keep me in yours, and more importantly my family as my grandmother - ever a fighter! - begins rehabilitation after a hip replacement surgery.

It's gonna be a strange, winding road. But I hope to share it with you.

Not all of it, mind you, but just enough that those of you on the same dark path might know you're not alone.

My dad, very subtly, left a book for me this morning.

The chapter titles weren't appealing, but one did catch my eye.

Chapter Twelve: The Wisdom of God.

I'm still digesting what it said, but I'll leave you with the words that jumped out at me as I had my daily cup this morning.

"Wisdom, among other things, is the ability to devise perfect ends and to achieve those ends by the most perfect means. It sees the end from the beginning, so there can be no need to guess or conjecture. Wisdom sees everything in focus, each in proper relation to all, and is thus able to work toward predestined goals with flawless precision.

All God's acts are done in perfect wisdom, first for His own glory, and then for the highest good of the greatest number for the longest time. And all his acts are as pure as they are wise, and as good as they are wise and pure. Not only could His acts not be better done: a better way to do them could not be imagined. An infinitely wise God must work in a manner not to be improved upon by finite creatures."

07/30/2013

Last
week's post about "Broken" (which I forgot to share on
FB) got me thinking about an old dream I had. One birthed in the linoleum-tiled
halls of Princeton High School.

I
was a senior and required to do an end-of-year project as part of the
Independent Study program. One of my best buds and I decided to
collaborate on a clothing line, since she was studying fashion merchandising
and I was studying marketing.

The
result of those studies was a brand based on upcycling vintage jeans with
hand-painting. We made samples to show the class, but never tried to sell
anything ourselves.

It
was just a project. A school thing. A grade.

But,
it was also the first time "DivineImperfections" made its way onto paper.

Over
the last eleven years so much of life has changed.

I'm
no longer interested in painting jeans (thank goodness) for one.

But
I've never let go of the idea behind our "brand." I've thought a lot
about those words…

The
idea of taking old things and making them new.

Taking
discarded things and giving them a new life.

Making
something beautiful out of something forgotten.

I
think it's pretty clear that's a concept dear to my heart.

And
that explains why seven years ago (or so) I started a little blog, where I
posted Weepies video links and the rantings of a
new college grad.

It
also explains why a few years ago I took the plunge and updated to a new
"website" but kept that same ol’ name.

'Cause
that name, those two words, mean something to me.

Together they're greater than
the sum of their parts.

Combined they represent life, in
all its lovely ordinariness. And God, in all His mysterious glory.

Together
they represent a life that is rich and beautiful, not in spite of so much
brokenness around us, but because of it.

And
that's probably a very heavy-handed way of leading into the news that comes
next.

But it's an important part of the story, my story, so I wanted to share.

It’d
be really easy to see this step I’m taking today as small, even insignificant.
To say, “It’s not that big of deal.”

And
in the past that’s exactly what I would have done. Tried to gloss over it,
because it seems silly.

But
this little step I'm taking today, is
not one I'm taking lightly.

Because
it’s part of something really important to me. It’s part of this dream. This dream I’ve been carrying in my heart for over a decade now.

The
one I tried to ignore, and leave buried in old journals.

A
dream to find my own unique way of sharing with the world what matters to me. Namely...

Divine Imperfections,and how they point to
grace.

I
relaunched my Etsy shop today. That’s the news. The single bullet point.

And
while I’ve tried this before, I’ve never done so with this clear a vision. Or
this much excitement!

Today
I’m opening a store I can be proud of. One more thoughtfully, and meticulously curated,
than in the past.

I
only posted items I would love to have in my own home, if storage weren’t an
issue (and I wasn’t at risk of becoming an A&E special… Hoarders!
Anthropologie-inspired edition.).

Every
item was lovingly picked by me, saved from a dusty future on overstocked thrift
store shelves. (Or from a trash bin after an unsuccessful yard sale.)

I
brought these discarded items home, and cleaned them up, then set them up for
their own Glamour Shots-styled
photoshoot.

Then
I settled in with a ruler, and a word processor, painstakingly describing each
item, cracks and all.

It’s
my hope that these items will now find new homes, where they’ll be put on proud
display, or go to good use. Serving as daily reminders that nothing is ever as
bad as it seems. Nothing is a lost cause, not when grace enters the picture.

And
maybe this seems like a silly hope.

After
all, it’s hard to believe an old coffee cup could change someone’s life.

But
I never dreamed I’d be where I am, as a seventeen-year-old in paint splattered
jeans.

I
never knew the impact brainstorming for a class project would have on my whole
life.

I
never knew how much healing would come to my own heart, or the ways I’d be
transformed (am being transformed!) by an unconditional love and an unbelievable grace.

So
you never know. Unless you try.

And
I’m really happy to be trying this.

Finally.

If
you’ve got a few minutes I hope you’ll visit my “shop.” Maybe someday I’ll have
a store front to greet you at, with iced tea and cheesy pop music.